


Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown

by LaurengeBleue



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 04:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10403913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurengeBleue/pseuds/LaurengeBleue
Summary: Fëanor is dead and Maedhros is lost. Maglor must become the king despite his misgivings





	

The bright gold alloy was warped. It would sit crooked on his head. That’s the reason he had given his brothers not to put on the crown right away when Curufinwë had handed it to him solemnly. It would need to be straightened first. Curufinwë had given him a tight-lipped look but had gone to the forge to see if they had suitable tools to do the repair. He had skill aplenty and Kanafinwë knew his brother would take the greatest care in righting the crown. He also knew Curvo would have preferred that no one ever touch or wear it again. It had barely left the smith’s hands since it had been warped by the fire of their father’s fëa leaving his body, the intense fire lapping at the crown and turning it a myriad of color. Curufinwë probably burned his hands picking it up, not wanting the crown to lay on the scorched ground. To restore the crown seemed sacrilegious, vainly trying to erase the moment their family was sundered again. The memory of it was still unbearable enough to need no physical reminder. As was the fact that they had to use this crown because the other one was lost with Nelyafinwë. His brother’s absence was like a void. When the brothers convened, there was always a gap to Kanafinwë’s left, and their meetings were a breached circle, never to be made whole again.

His brother had favored some simpler circlet, found in haste in Fëanáro’s belongings before meeting with Morgoth’s negotiating party. As if the balrogs had cared about any symbol of Noldor authority. Still, the crown had fitted Nelyafinwë well. Even harried by the discovery of orcs and their father’s death, he was as a king should be: regal and commanding. His brother had also been too trusting, but Maglor could not begrudge him for it. They were altogether too new to evil, be it their own or Morgoth’s.

Finwë, his father, his brother, all dead. In the case of Nelyafinwë, he hoped so. He didn’t even think of praying to the Valar, half for not wanting to prove the truth of their Doom and half because he knew he would go unheeded. So the second son had ascended to a throne where another was supposed to sit forevermore. The sheer ridiculousness of it was a testament to their predicament. Him, the bard, the dutiful but self-effacing one, a king on the warpath. He had no idea how to lead, or to strategize an assault on the black fortress. No idea how to reach out to the host on the other side of the lake. The blue banners might as well have been flags for another realm altogether.

Findekáno had come, formally acknowledging the fact Nelyafinwë had been lost and that Kanafinwë was now the leader of Fëanáro’s host. Or was it his host now? No, they were still on a trajectory made by his father, and Kanafinwë had no desire to change course. He had no idea what course he would take anyway. He was directionless.

His cousin had looked even more tormented that him, and Kanafinwë could not attribute all of it to the cross of the Helcaraxë. Findekáno had not even asked about the boats, instead inquiring about the treachery of Morgoth at the parley. Kanafinwë had tried to find some hidden meaning his cousin could have, discussing the enemy’s betrayal but meaning their own, but Findekáno had spoken straight. The only anger he had expressed was when Kanafinwë told him they were not mounting a rescue. Then even the weariness from the Grinding Ice had not been enough to dim the lick of rage in his cousin. He had been bright and lovely in Tirion, and now this light was still in him, but sharper and safe behind the fortress of Findekáno’s resolve. He would do well in this bleary land.

Maglor shivered and got nearer to the fire in his tent, pulling his too fine cloak around him. Everything was so cold here. The very chill of the air reminded them that they were in the Enemy’s territory. The moon had been a great comfort after having only the red glow of torches and braziers to light their days, but now everything looked pale and wan under its light, adding to the bleakness of their situation.

Perhaps he should give the crown to Turcafinwë. In truth, it would be to give it to Turcafinwë and Curufinwë both. Their bond had amplified on the boats and now where one went, the other followed, and they spoke with one voice. Maglor thought unkindly that the voice they spoke with was not their own. A voice that was silent now. His brothers had plenty of ambition. If he gave them the crown, Curufinwë would probably go and demand that Nolofinwë acknowledge Turcafinwë as their king. It would sunder them from their uncle forevermore and Makalaurë still dared to hope from Findekáno’s visit that they could someday walk as one with their uncle’s host.

The singer looked distractedly at battle plans. The locations were approximate, the size of the enemy’s army estimated. Kanafinwë hated not knowing. He longed for a clear path. It wasn’t that he was usually indecisive. He was just woefully unprepared for this burden. All his time spent with Finwë in Tirion was useless to direct his actions here. What do friendly festivals teach you of negotiations with creatures that want nothing more than embed their scimitars in your skull? Was there even a right course of action or would any attempt result in their death? Should he command the Noldor to batter the black gates until either it or them gave under the strain? It seemed to be what their father would do.

Kanafinwë didn’t want to build anything here. He didn’t want to live here. It was a harsh place made for warring. Perhaps the whole continent had been transformed this way. Never again would his days be devoid of the clang of swords and the acrid smell of smoke. His harp was now hidden under piles of maps and his mail. Who would sing in a place like this? If he picked the instrument up, he worried the despair of his song would cast a pall so heavy on the camp it would hobble the host better than a company of orcs.

Orcs. They were such disgusting creatures. Twisted and malicious. And to think their disgusting hands carried his brother to his end. Better to have perished by a balrog’s flame.

Curufinwë came back and Kanafinwë straightened his posture. He would be king, because he must. If all their actions were bound to fail, it did not absolve them from trying. His voice had been used to delight, now it would be to command. “Gather the host. I will address them”. Kanafinwë waited for Curufinwë to leave before putting the crown on his head. It was too warm and too heavy. The Noldo wanted to cast it from his brow. It belonged on Finwë’s head. He avoided any surface that could return his image, worried the sight would make the weight of his loss unbearable and he would fall. Kanafinwë wanted to curse his brother for leaving him. He wanted him to come back even more. There had never been any danger or adventure he had stepped into where he didn’t have the solid weight of his brother’s hand on his shoulder. Maglor left the tent, picking up his sword on the way out, and shivered in the thin air.


End file.
